


everlasting

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [20]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Autistic Character, Gen, Mental Health Stuff, more important conversations on Beds, this was not supposed to be this long
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 19:26:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Some things have to wax and wane before they can burn bright.(set after "What's in a name, anyways?")





	everlasting

**Author's Note:**

> takes place after the first two works in this series, and before the majority of it and "Moments."

Ikael gets an odd feeling before he enters his room, and it makes him pause. But he is used to odd feelings, and he knows sometimes they can be napped away and other times they can be snacked away. Perhaps he is hungry, then, he thinks as pushes open his door. Muffins? Ikael can bake carrot muff—

Oh. Thancred is in his room, and he is holding the beautiful glass candleholder that Ikael had taken from him, carefully blown into the shape of a rose with pink petals somehow pressed into the inside. Thancred looks at Ikael slowly when he enters, and his expression makes Ikael’s tail dip between his legs.

Too late, he remembers that he hadn’t closed his door.

“Ikael,” Thancred says, voice frightfully even, “Did you steal this from my room?”

Ikael sucks in a breath, feeling his ears press down to his head as a surge of irrational fear spikes through him. Thancred does not sound… aggressive, exactly but his tone is steely enough that—

“Well? ‘Tis a simple yes or no question.”

—that Ikael instinctively flinches, panic making him step back a fulm. Thancred raises an eyebrow, then walks to the door and closes it.

“Oh no no no,” he says. “No running away. Now; why did you take it? While I admit that it may be an amusing idea in theory, stealing from the rogue, in practice,” And now his expression hardens minutely, and Ikael’s heart jumps, “it is _far_ less entertaining.”

Ikael’s mouth opens and closes uselessly. His mind haphazardously skitters for some believable explanation, but he cannot focus when his heart is pounding in his throat and his mouth is dryer than the desert he was raised in, and he finds nothing to say.

Thancred drums his nails against the glass as he waits for an answer. The _rat-tat-tat-ta_ becomes quicker and increasingly impatient as Ikael keeps his silence. Finally, he stops—abrupt. Ikael steels himself in preparation to be yelled at, although he thinks tears are unavoidable at this point.

“I want you to look at this,” Thancred is saying. He holds out the candle. “Yes. Go on,” he continues when Ikael freezes, “Take it. Very good.”

“Now.” Thancred crosses his arms. “Do you see the petals on the inside?” He waits until Ikael looks at what he is holding and joltingly nods. “The superb craftsmanship? The intricacy of the design?”

Ikael thinks those last two questions are rhetorical, but he is not sure. He nods anyway, any hope of a proper reply vanishing as Thancred's words and tone make the lump in his throat too big to speak around. There is the stirring of nausea in the pit of his stomach too, now, brought on by panic and apprehension. Ikael tries and fails to swallow around it, and tightens his grip on the candleholder.

“Then you can imagine how expensive a gift it was,” Thancred says. His expression is impossible to decipher; Ikael was never very good at that, and now it is only making the fear in his heart spike into panic. “And do you know where you were keeping it?”

Another question that Ikael thinks must be rhetorical, because of course he knows where he was keeping it. He nods anyway, pointing to his nightstand. The… _edge_ of the nightstand, specifically, where it could be the closest to Ikael’s head as he slept. Ikael’s hand, holding the candle, starts to shake. He—he hadn’t thought it had meant that much to Thancred; he has an entire assortment of random trinkets in his room! Ikael didn’t—he didn’t—how could he know—how—

“Ikael.” Thancred's voice turns sharper. “Put it down.”

Ikael jumps at the suddenness of the command, and Thancred curses swiftly and jerks forward. Ikael lets out a yelp that sounds more like a wet bleat, ears flattening to his skull. His tail winds tightly around his leg.

“Ikael,” Thancred demands, “Put it _down_. _Now_.”

His meaning finally registers through the fogginess of Ikael’s brain, and Ikael makes an unintelligible noise, fumbling with the candle. But his hands are shaking _badly_ , and his fingers are not working, and Thancred is—Thancred is angry with him, Thancred hates him, Thancred is _scaring_ him, and now Ikael’s vision is blurry and he cannot _see_ and he cannot _feel_ and he cannot make anything make _sense_ and—and—

Ikael only notices that he has dropped the candle when Thancred swears again and dives forwards. Ikael makes a terrified noise, tries to step back—but his tail is all wrong now and his balance is gone and Thancred is suddenly there and Ikael does not _know_ what is happening—

The next thing he is aware of is a sharp shattering noise that pierces his eardrums and snatches the breath from him. And now Ikael is somehow on the ground and that sharpness is everywhere and Thancred is staring at him in disbelief and—

His expression—twitches—just briefly, and he hisses, “I told you to put it _down,_ Ikael!”

He sounds so _angry_ in that one sentence, and the word _down_ is more of a yell, really, and although he instantly schools his expression, Ikael’s panic spikes up from his heart into his mind and floods _everything_ —suddenly his vision is hexagons and crystals and he can taste his tears and his nose is runny and disgusting. He hates getting yelled at and he is terrified that there is going to be more and he wants to _run_ —

But he cannot. He is frozen stiff, unable to so much as breathe.

Silence reigns for a long, horrible moment. Ikael is dimly aware of his heartbeat clawing at his throat, demanding to be let out.

Thancred looks at him—

Thancred is nice, Ikael remembers. Thancred is nice and had let Ikael cry on him a few times and even though they are not friends Thancred had said _You are dear to us_ , _Ikael_. Ikael hopes that means it is alright if Ikael does not wish to remain here to be yelled at, just this one time. He will… he will come back later, perhaps, if Thancred really wants to do so. Ikael shifts hesitantly, moving away just a _little_ bit…

Thancred does not do anything to stop him. Ikael seizes the moment and scrambles backwards on bloodied hands _—(“Oh no no no. No running away.”)_ —and somehow manages to get up and wrench the door open. Then he is _fleeing_ , full-pelt down the hallway, not knowing or caring where he is going.

 _I do not hate you,_ Thancred had also said, but Ikael is certain that is not true anymore.

~*~

Ikael is avoiding Thancred as much as possible. It has been a few days, and he is still scared and upset and so, _so_ guilty, and he has not returned to his bedroom in case Thancred is waiting in there to finish yelling at him.

Ikael has changed his mind. He does not want to come back later.

He cannot completely avoid Thancred, of course. He still has to make breakfast every morning, and then lunch for everyone who is there, and then dinner in the evening. But he leaves the food out and takes his serving up to the roof, now, only returning to put away leftovers and clean dishes. Whether Thancred eats Ikael’s food or not he does not know; if he hates him now, does that mean he will not eat? Oh, Ikael certainly hopes not… he does not wish for Thancred to go hungry.

Ikael understands that what he did is… wrong. He _thinks_ he understands, at least. He knows that if… if someone were to take his favourite sweater, he would be very upset. Ikael’s sweater is _his_ , and if someone wants it because it smells like him then they should ask him, so that he knows he has not lost it.

Ikael also understands that he has broken something expensive, and Thancred is not one to splurge on useless things. So that is how he finds himself in Ul’dah, tugging uncertainly at the ties to his coin purse, and hesitating in front of a glassware shop.

Ikael… has been saving up to buy a nice sweater he had seen a couple of moons ago. It is bright, and orange, and fluffy, and looks so lovely he can sleep in it. But now he has broken someone else’s precious thing, and the guilt is eating him alive. He _needs_ to repay it.

He cannot find a candleholder like the one he had broken. He does find one, however, inlaid with sparkling sapphires, curling up into a python that looks as if it is ready to strike at Ikael’s thieving fingers. Ikael checks the price, sucks in a startled breath, gnaws at his lip, and buys it.

He has been keeping track of Thancred's whereabouts, so it is not that hard to find a time when he is away from his room. It _is_ hard, however, to get past a locked door; more so _Thancred's_ locked door, and so Ikael does not attempt it.

Ikael’s heart itches at the reminder that he has lost Thancred's trust—because he is a nasty, horrible person who steals things—and he clutches at the candleholder uselessly for a moment, at a loss. Then he licks his bleeding lip, and goes to fetch a box.

He scratches out a heart next to the “ _Fragile”_ he writes on the top. He hopes Thancred does not throw it away simply based on that—if he recognizes the handwriting as Ikael’s, it is… a possibility. But Ikael does not have any more money. He… does not know what else he can do to replace what he has destroyed.

The… candleholder. Ikael is… thinking about the candleholder. Of course.

 _Just because you cried on the man a couple of times does not mean he will want to be your best friend, Ikael_ , he reminds himself, and flees.

~*~

That night is a cold one. Ikael is sitting, shivering, on the roof. He wishes he had a sweater. The last-minute sleeping roll he had bought is thin, not meant to be used as much more than a base for a makeshift bed. Ikael wishes he could go back into his room.

He is blinking up at the stars when he hears a low grunt of exertion from behind him. He whips around to see... Thancred, hauling himself onto the roof. His stomach plummets immediately.

 _No, no, no_. Ikael had come to here _specifically_ to avoid being yelled at! Why is Thancred—why is he—oh gods—

“There you are.” Thancred is not yelling at him yet, but Ikael can feel panic surging in him nevertheless. He realizes now that he has not _apologized_ —oh _no_ —and that is no doubt why Thancred is here. Ikael will—Ikael will apologize immediately. He—he will—he will—

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His throat has mysteriously closed up, and Ikael curses it, feels panic swell in his chest because now Thancred will be _angry_ with him again and Ikael should be able to manage a simple apology but he cannot speak and that is just making everything _worse_ and _worse_ and—

“Why in the world do you have a sleeping roll?” Thancred asks. After Ikael does not answer in the pause he leaves, he continues, “… Anyways. I wish to speak with you, if you are amenable. Pray meet me in my quarters.”

Then he drops down from the roof and is gone. Ikael manages to make an awful-feeling wheezing noise. He hugs his knees, rocking back and forth. He can do this. He can… he can perhaps write down his apology, and desperately hope that Thancred will accept it.

He leaves the roof and drags himself through the halls. There is pen and paper in the library, which is—

—after Thancred's room, taking this route, he realizes too late. Thancred's door is open—Ikael tramples on the brief, relieved elation he feels—and the man himself is waiting inside. His gaze meets Ikael's and he nods, gesturing for him to enter. Ikael, although he feels as if each step he takes weighs a million tonze, has no choice but to obey.

“Close the door,” Thancred says. Ikael’s heartbeat spikes. He pushes the door shut with clumsy fingers.

Thancred is perched on his bed, holding the replacement candleholder Ikael had bought him. It is a cruelly casual mirror of the first scene of Ikael’s crime, and the reminder makes Ikael want to cry.

“Did you leave this?” Thancred asks. Is… that another rhetorical question? Ikael says nothing, confused and a little scared. He does not know how to tell when the yelling will start.

Thancred holds up the candleholder, as if making sure Ikael knows he is indicating it. “Well?” he says.

Ikael starts to cry silently, tears tracking down his cheeks. It has been a horrid week, and he cannot help it. He nods, shoulders slumping, and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. Hopefully Thancred does not mind overmuch.

Thancred sets the candleholder down on his desk. “You can sit down,” he says in an odd sort of voice. Ikael does not like sitting down when he is being yelled at; it makes him feel even smaller. He remains standing.

 Thancred sighs. Ikael winces at the noise—he is… frustrated? At… Ikael. Ikael is—Ikael is _so_ sorry, but he cannot—he cannot _say_ that, because he is being useless right now.

“It looks very expensive,” Thancred says. His tone shifts into something similar to when he is making a joke at someone’s expense. “I only hope you did not steal it.”

That hits hard, only in part because Ikael had not been expecting it. He chokes on a sob, slipping his hands over his face and pressing them to his eyes. Ikael had _not_ stolen it, and that is not fair. He had bought it, with his own money. He does not—he does not _steal_ candleholders. Ikael is—Ikael is not… a _thief_.

 _Yes you are_ , says a nasty little voice in his head, and he sobs again.

“Ah, that was perhaps in bad taste, although deserved,” Thancred says. He sounds… odd again. “Pray accept mine apologies. So; how long is this silent treatment going to last, then? You cannot hope to remain upset with me forever.”

Ikael’s shoulders hunch together. Thancred thinks he is not speaking because… because of some sort of petty _silent_ treatment? Like he is a bratty child? Is… that really the impression Ikael is giving off?

He only shakes his head, staring at the ground through the gaps between his fingers.

“No?” Thancred questions. “No as in you do not know, or no as in you are not upset with me?”

Ikael is… confused. He is sad, does not have any money, _and_ Thancred yelled at him. Why is he not doing so right now? Ikael just wants this to be over with. His hands are getting wet with his tears, and he hates it when his fingers prune.

“Well… I must thank you, regardless,” Thancred says. “Of course, it will not replace what was broken—especially as that was a gift from… someone very dear to me—but the thought is nice, I suppose. An apology and perhaps an explanation as to why you of all people are going around stealing people’s candleholders of all things would also be nice, but we cannot have everything in life, can we?”

 _Another rhetorical question_ , Ikael's mind registers, but he is too busy sobbing brokenheartedly to notice. Perhaps Thancred does not yell, then, but only says things to hurt Ikael’s feelings. That is… fair. Ikael is a horrible thief and he deserves it.

“Oh come now; that was not too mean,” Thancred says. He adds something else, but Ikael is not paying attention to him. Crying consumes the majority of his mental facilities. He does catch: “Ah… I am sorry. I did not mean to make you cry.”

Now Thancred is angry because Ikael is guilt-tripping him. He sobs harder, unable to control himself or the shaking of his shoulders.

He does not register the sound of the mattress creaking quietly, and his hands are over his face so he cannot _see,_ and so he jumps when he feels a sudden touch on his left shoulder. He looks up, startled, only to see Thancred standing there with a definably awkward expression.

“Is… this alright?” Thancred asks, hand lingering over Ikael’s shoulder.

Ikael stares at him. A disgusting trail of mucus and tears dribbles down his chin.

“Ah…” Thancred pats himself down, and for a terrifying moment Ikael thinks he is going to be stabbed. But Thancred only pulls out a handkerchief.

“Here you go,” he says, holding it out.

Ikael eyes dart towards it fearfully. He slowly takes it. Hopefully if he goes along with what Thancred wants, he will refrain from yelling at him.

“Clean yourself up,” Thancred says mutedly. He is looking at Ikael with a very strange expression; eyelids lowered halfway, something tilted to the set of his mouth. Ikael glances at the handkerchief, apprehension stuttering his heartbeat for a moment. It is… very nice; Ikael does not want to ruin it. Is this some sort of test? Is Thancred trying to make a point? Teach him a lesson?

He looks at Thancred again, ready to hand it back—but he is stopped by a nod. All… right then. Ikael hesitantly dabs at his chin, then his mouth. The rest of his face.

“Keep that for now,” Thancred tells him. His hand splays over Ikael’s shoulder, finally making contact. Ikael stares at him. The hand drops.

“And if you are going to start crying again, I want you to use it, alright?” Thancred says. “It is not truly that terrifying to look at my face, is it?”

Ikael’s features twists. He presses the handkerchief over his face, obscuring everything from his vision once more. He thinks he hears Thancred mutter something that sounds like “Good enough,” but he cannot be sure.

“Is that why you are crying? Did I scare you?” Thancred asks. His voice is strange again. Ikael does not know if that is a bad thing or not, so he just nods miserably, hoping he is not answering incorrectly.

“And earlier this week, when we were in your room? Did I scare you then?” Thancred prods.

Ikael nods miserably once more, beginning to cry at the memory. Thancred had scared him _very_ much.

Thancred makes a quiet sound. “I am sorry,” he says, sounding truly regretful. “I realize now I should not have approached you like that.”

Ikael cannot tell if he is lying or not. He also does not know how he is supposed to react to that, so he just presses the handkerchief into his eye sockets until he sees sparks behind his eyelids.

“Do you… usually get scared when people are angry with you?” Thancred is speaking once more. Ikael quietens so that he can answer correctly. After a heart-stopping moment in which he does not know what Thancred wants to hear, he decides to nod. He might as well simply tell the truth and hope for the best. He is not a liar _and_ a thief.

“Ah,” Thancred says. His voice is lingering in that odd low tone, gently open at the edges, and Ikael finds, strangely, that he likes it. He lowers the handkerchief to peek at Thancred. Thancred looks surprised at this—then gives a little smile.

“Is it worse when they raise their voice?” he questions, still in that tone. Ikael nods once more, his vision blurring. Thancred clicks his tongue sympathetically, patting Ikael on the shoulder. Ikael starts to cry into the handkerchief again.

“Oh, I am very sorry,” Thancred croons over his sobs. “I should not have done that, hm? Next time I shall simply steal something of yours in return, or challenge you to a duel of honour so we can settle our differences like mostly-grown men.”

Ikael does not _like_ conflict, nor does he like being referred to as a mostly-grown man. He shakes his head. There will not be a next time; Ikael is never going to take anything from Thancred's room ever again. He will give him back all of his shirts, even if he really does not want to, and maybe one day Thancred will stop hating him.

“No?” Thancred says absently. His hand leaves Ikael’s shoulder. “Come—sit.”

Ikael peeks over the handkerchief to watch Thancred sit down on the bed. He shuffles over to sit next to him. Shuffles closer.

Thancred picks up the candleholder, studying it. “This truly does look as if it cost you a fortune,” he says as he turns it around. “To tell you the truth, Ikael, it is worth far more than the one Mi—than the one I had. Speaking of which, I am still curious as to why you took it. Did you like the design? The colour, perhaps?”

Ikael looks at him for one long, heart-skittering moment. Then, hesitantly, he gets up.

He goes over to the desk, glances back to see Thancred watching him in equal parts confusion and curiosity. Ikael reaches for the candles that are lying near the writing utensils. Takes one. Heads back.

Thancred says nothing, apparently waiting for Ikael to explain. Ikael hesitates, then holds the candle up.

Thancred's brow twitches. “What?” he says.

Ikael holds the candle up further, right underneath Thancred's nose.

Thancred sniffs automatically. “It smells nice,” he says. “This may startle you, but I know what my own candles smell like.”

Ikael nods.

There is a beat, then Thancred's expression morphs into one of pure, utter confoundment. “You… just wanted the candle,” he says. He sounds as if he cannot quite believe what he is saying.

Ikael flushes, then nods again. He places the candle on Thancred's lap.

Thancred's face cycles through an interesting variety of expressions before he brings up his hand to drop his head in it. His voice, when he speaks, is half dumfounded and half exasperated. “Then why did you not… just take… the _candle_?”

Ikael hadn’t known candles and candleholders were separate items until he had opened his door to find an accusatory Thancred holding only one. The discovery, although in theory joyful, had been severely dampened by the rest of the evening.

Which… reminds Ikael…

He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small, mostly-used candle. Quietly, he places it in the candleholder. There. He has returned everything now. A sort of hollow emptiness seeps into his bones as he adjusts the stumpy wax, and he can feel himself tear up. He will… he will miss it. It had been his sole companion this past week.

Thancred simply stares at him. Ikael starts to cry again.

“Oh, for…” There is movement, and then something is being pressed into Ikael’s hands. “Take it back, for gods’ sake. I am not going to add ‘robber of comfort objects,’ to my list of heroic titles.”

Ikael does not need to be told twice. He snatches the candle back, pressing it to his cheek and nuzzling it. _His_ candle. It is _Ikael’s_ candle now. Thancred has given it to him.

Ikael sniffles loudly. Thancred mutters something he cannot hear, but a second later Ikael feels an arm gently rest across his shoulders. He is happier about the fact that he gets to keep his candle than the fact that Thancred might not hate him, but that does not mean it is not nice.

“If you ever want another candle, feel free to take one,” Thancred tells him. “That one does not look like as if it has much life left in it, so is it fair to assume I can expect—”

Ikael quickly plucks the candle from Thancred's lap. He is _never_ going to kill _his_ candle. Never ever ever. It is _his_.

“I can tell this is the start of an unshakable, ground-breaking friendship,” Thancred says in a flatly sarcastic manner that Ikael completely misses. Ikael nods in agreement. Candles are much better friends than people.

Thancred's face shifts into a soft, sideways expression that Ikael can finally match his tone to. “Well,” he says, “Maybe we _can_ give it a go, hm?”

He is not making any sense, so Ikael ignores him. Instead he closes his eyes, leaning against Thancred's shoulder; all the crying has exhausted him. Mayhaps Ikael can buy Thancred a candle friend for Starlight. Everyone deserves a friend. Ikael will do his best to get him a good one.

One that will last.

~*~


End file.
